The school year started uneventfully. I had lost "my babies" in July, just before camp, but had gained three new, older foster kids in late August. On my husbands birthday. He has told them for ten years that they were his birthday present.

They were very cute kids. Nothing could take the place of "my babies" the ones I had cared for on and off for years before, potty trained, raised as my own, but these new ones sure were cutie pies. The older one turned 10 on September 2, right after they moved in. The twins, the ones that I call Senior Girl and Farm Boy in my earlier post, were 8. They were active but mostly obedient. At least while you were around.

They had been in two foster homes before mine. In both cases, the foster parents complained and told the county to find another home. That is called, "breaking a placement". I had never done that. I will never do that. The county knows that. I've NEVER broken a placement and I never will. The county can take kids away if they want, but I won't send them away. I know some kids are tough, but, oooo, the rejection.....that's what stays with them for life. The placements were broken due to the boy. Always the boy.

It usually didn't happen that way with me that I got them from another foster home. I liked getting them straight from the biological home with no other "training" in between. Maybe that seems strange to someone who has never worked with children from dysfunctional homes but, at least for me, I have found it works better that way. I can deal with the dysfuntion better than someone elses "rules" that I may or may not agree with. Generally they come from a home with no training and training is easier than retraining, if that makes any sense.

I usually got either babies, preschoolers, or teens. Middle aged children are usually the easiest, as they go to school an all, but I think the county had my number that I would take hard ones, not call them every day complaining, and just do my best. I only wanted babies in the beginning, most people do, and on top of that I made a rule for myself that I would never take any kids that were older than my youngest child. Junior was 8 when we started and I liked keeping them under five. It's a good spread. It works. As my biological children got older the county started calling with older kids. I only caved in once and took a girl who was 15 when Junior was 14. Nothing too terribly bad came out of that, but I realized anew the wisdom of what God had shown me early on. I never made that mistake again.

It was a busy time. Junior was 17 and the girls were in college. The new three had come from the worst abuse situation our county had known to date. There was a certain evilness on the part of the mother that was still unfathomable ten years ago. One who has never worked with abused children always has a glorified view of what it would be like to parent them afterwards. "Ooooo, you po babes!". That's not really how it is. Yes, you feel compassion but you realize early on that you cannot allow it to cloud your judgement.

Because of the abuse they learn manipulation. Wow, do they learn it. And they are GOOD at it. They learn how to look you straight in the eye and lie right through their teeth. These kids were SO cute and had such nice brown eyes to look into, that it made it even harder to discern the truth. I had been in foster care for ten years at that point so I wasn't totally sucked in, and their manipulations were actually pretty lame, but being the mushy mercy type I was taken aback at the blatant trickery, lying, stealing and two-facedness.

What I learned is that the worse the abuse, the worse those four problems are. It might, and I stress the word, might, be different if the kids are of normal intelligence. There seemed to be an inability on my part to effectively communicate with them even if I dumbed my vocabulary down and worked hard at not lecturing for twenty minute time periods. The trouble with a brighter child would be their ability to even MORE effectively outwit the parent. Two months after they were here, and money had already been stolen, inside the house, my new son began a trick. He thought it up himself. The lunchroom scam. He was in second grade.

Foster kids get free lunch, at least in New York. The pay ain't great in Foster Care but that is one of the small perks. They have changed the system now but at the time the school used little paper tickets. I would give each of the kids a ticket each day before school. One day I got a call from the head lunch room lady.

"I know your kids get free lunch, Mrs. C, and don't worry about it, we have covered him the past couple of weeks, but we wanted to let you know that we really do need the tickets to come in so we can keep track of numbers, etc."

"Uh......what? I've given him a ticket everyday. What happened to them?"

"I don't know, Mrs. C., but we aren't getting them."

Right then, I got in the car and went over to the school. In the process of conversation, and the little bit of truth we could get from my child, we pieced it together. He knew that the lunch cost $1.40. He didn't care much about lunch, or any meal, for that matter, for a reason I have never figured out, so he would sell his lunch ticket to a kid in his class for $1.00. That left the kid with a ticket for lunch (all the tickets looked the same and free were no different) and enough money left over for a snack. He had a buck. THAT was all he cared about. Money. Then he would go to the lunch lady, and with that sweet, little, freckled face, he would tell her that his "FOSTER MOTHER DIDN'T GIVE IT TO HIM!". He figured even if he didn't get lunch he didn't care that much, but he always did anyway. The irony of his life is that at 18 years old he still has trouble telling you how many times 25 goes into a hundred, but he has known, practically since birth that there are four quarters in a dollar. What is this? I had never dealt with this before.

I was getting calls from the school almost daily about him and he was given a personal fulltime aide in the classroom. I dealt. Homeschooling is not an option when a child is in foster care so that thought did not enter my mind at the time. The county was still working to reinstate the children with their mother anyway. Kids were calling him carrot top and Red because of his hair, and pick up sticks because of his excrutiatingly skinny legs, legs I could literally put my thumb and forefinger around. At eight years old he was 40 pounds. Partly due to his mother's systematic starvation and partly due to his own lack of desire to eat when he finally got the chance. What I figured out was that, at least after he came to my house, it was all a control issue. He wanted to eat when, where, and what he wanted but it all had to be on his terms. He is still like that to a degree but teenage growth spurts help in this regard. Sometimes you just get so hungry you don't care whether you are pleasing the parent by eating or not.

I still ached for the babies. I was busy, running around, etc. but the babies......where were my babies? Who could say whether they were my REAL babies or not? A mother's heart doesn't know the difference.

In September the youth pastor called. He said he needed some youth leaders and was wondering if I would come to the meetings once a week. This time he didn't have to beg. "Okay", I said. Junior didn't want to go. Some of the kids that mocked him in school were church kids. I know, don't get me started again, but I didn't push it. After I came back the first night though I was almost on a high. I had had SO much fun! I know it's stupid, this 42 year old woman, the oldest leader in the youth group, having so much fun playing Play-Doh pictionary, Fruit Basket Upset, and other corny games. I had never had the youth group experience and this was fun! I was pretty quiet though. Just kind of sat in my seat, did what everyone else was doing and didn't speak up too much.

When I told my tales of youth group at home, Junior got kind of flushed. He was honest and said that he was 'jealous' that I had had such a good time. I prodded him to come the next week and he did. The look of fear was all over him though. He was SO afraid that it broke my heart. Both of us began having the time of our lives. The kids called me, "Juniors Mom" and they slowly began to make me feel accepted, in spite of my "old age". The youth pastor had to go away one week. He asked if I would do the "teaching". "Uhhhh......in front of the kids?" Well, duh. I reluctantly said okay. This was hearkening back to my failed Bible Study group and I wasn't liking it. I worried and fretted over what I would have to talk about for what would be twenty interminiably long minutes. Finally, I prayed. Isn't that always the way? Finally, I took it to the Lord. Immediately He gave me the words and I scribbled them down. I would talk about worship. How worship, true worship is the key of David (Rev.), the key that opens the door to the throne room. "Enter His gates with thanksgiving and praise". That is the key, the only key I know of that really opens the floodgates of heaven.

Having the words on paper didn't help much though. I was trembling and I'm not a trembly person. I found always found it very difficult to stand in front of people, I had done it several times in different settings, and speak. Most people do, I guess, but I figured out what my particular problem was. I am so people oriented, so focused on the person themself, that standing in front of a bunch of them was like.......overload. If one person was yawning or even looking distracted, it would really throw me off. There was this one girl, Chrissy, a very pretty one she was, who was looking straight at me, agreeing with everything I said, nodding. Even the other youth leaders weren't THAT interested. One even looked like she was closing her eyes! I focused only on this girl. I didn't look at anyone else. I got through it. I GOT THROUGH IT! At the end of my little sermon Chrissy was smiling and excited. She came up to me and asked if I would meet her mother when she came to pick her up. Another girl, one I hadn't noticed was listening came up to me. She remembered me from camp. "Sister Connie", she said, (everyone calls each other that at camp), could we, I mean, my friends and I come over to your house sometime and worship with you the way you just described? The way you did at camp?" SURE!

I felt vaguely uncertain whether it was alright or not. I called the Youth Pastor. He told me he would get back to me. I asked when. He said, "In a couple of months". One thing I know about teenagers is that there are windows of opportunity. When one opens you don't delay. You jump through. I had occasion to talk to the mother of the girl who had asked. She was married to the Children's Pastor. She asked when I was going to start the group! I asked if she thought I should wait for the go ahead from the youth pastor. She said, "No! You don't need permission to have a little party over at your house!" Well, alrighty then. There was still this thing sticking me though. It's the irony of my life. I've been labeled unsubmissive to authority but I have always been such a pleaser. I couldn't act without just one more okay. I called the Associate Pastor. He's the top gun since no one can ever get the Senior Pastor on the phone anyway. He knew me fairly well, I had turned to him at times and spilled my heart about things. They called him the "Care Pastor" because he cared. He gave the same answer, even more emphatically.
"Go for it!", he said. That was the last go ahead I needed. I called the girl and told her that I would make dinner for everyone and have music. All she had to do was contact anybody she wanted to come and tell me a day before how many there would be.

They trickled in at first, but then it was like a flood. I made them dinner on the first night but when they wanted to keep coming back I asked that they bring a dish to pass. The first night fifteen came. After that it exploded to 25......30.......40. In my house. My little house. The worship was phenomenal. Free. My couch got broken and husband didn't even get upset about it. Life got crazy. They called day and night. Two, from a home in which the county should have been involved, but for some reason would not, even after I pleaded, moved in. They came for dinner on weeknights. Dessert after dinner. After school. They called me Connie. No Mrs. No Sister. After a while it was shortened to Con...or Conster. People called it ministry, but it didn't feel like that. It was just tooooo much FUN!

I went to bed that night but couldn't sleep. This was the second night in a row that I was not going to get a good nights sleep and I was getting a little upset about it. This night was different though. Instead of being mad about being there I was ecstatic. My mind was spinning out of control and I couldn't stop it. Even the trusty Tylenol didn't do the trick of calming me. I knew I had to get up at 5:45am for staff devotions and I was worried that I would finally nod off at 5:00 and not wake up since I had forgotton to bring an alarm clock.

Morning came and I didn't miss the meeting. The days had a nice routine to them so that I didn't have to think that much. The kids kept track of the routine better than I did so I just followed them around. Mealtimes were fun and I enjoyed it especially because I didn't have to cook or serve them. The girls and I were hitting it off and even the typical camp games and other boring stuff didn't bother me too much. The Senior campers were given a two hour free time in the afternoon and as long as they told me where they were going and I could account for them if asked, I didn't have to be with them during this time. This became my 'alone' time each day, which I have found I need, especially as I get older. I spent it in the cabin, reading, praying, dozing, just thinking. As the day wore on I became increasingly antsy for the evening chapel service.

People started milling around the pavillion while the worship team warmed up and the campers filled up on soda pop, twinkies and skittles at the canteen. I took my seat in the third row, as usual, and gabbed with each of the girls as they returned munching on their treats. I was excited. Let's have chuuuuuurrrrchhhhhhhh!

The music started and the singing started. My heart was open to the Lord and ready. Many were raising their hands and even dancing in the aisles. I just gave myself over to the presence of the Lord I was feeling.

In front of me, in the first row were a group of 17 yr. old girls. A cabin of them. They were pretty alright. Real pretty. The ring leader looked like a model and the rest of them weren't far from it. I had seen them around camp and at the cafeteria but I didn't know any of them. None were from my town or my church. As I stood there I began to stare at them. At the back of their perfect heads with their perfect hair. I didn't know why.

Suddenly I heard myself thinking. No, it wasn't the same as just thinking a thought. I HEARD myself thinking. Like, if I was outside of my mind and heard myself, the way someone else would if they could hear my thoughts. It was surreal and I just shut down as far as the worship. I stood there expressionless.

I heard myself say:

"I wonder why those girls are here"

"They don't look like they want to be here"

"I bet their parents made them come"

"I bet they just came to check out the guys"

I was stunned. I hadn't just thought that!

"Yes, you did"

"What?"

"That's exactly what you think"

"How could I, Lord? How could I make such judgements about people I don't even know? I can't believe it!"

"I can"

Suddenly brother Jeremiah started speaking to my heart. "The heart is deceitful above all things, who can know it?"

"Did I just hear that?"

"Yes"

I started to tremble. How could this be? I was feeling so ashamed and I had just felt so alive, so excited, so open to the Lord.

"Where did this come from? This judgement?"

"The past few years"

It had been a rough time for a few years in our town. Christian kids were doing drugs, sleeping together, rebelling left and right. My own daughter was becoming increasingly difficult and I didn't know why. She was the oldest, who knew?, maybe this is what just happens when they become teenagers? Most of the parents were in denial, including me, but once in a while I was overcome with anxiety. The song "don't worry, be happy" was popular then and that became my motto. It saved me from feeling the need to be vigilant in prayer. In the aftermath of those days I had developed an attitude that even I didn't know was there. A cynical disillusionment. I had never voiced it but it was there nonetheless.

"What do I do, Lord?"

"Repent"

With that I felt like my heart broke right in two. The pain, there was this pain, like a ripping in my chest. It was a physical, stabbing pain. I threw myself down and laid my head in my arms on the hard wooden bench. I bawled. I didn't cry. I bawled. The music was loud and no one was paying any attention to me anyway. I heaved in and out and my sleeves were wet with my tears. I am sooo sorry, Lord.

I felt peace. There was peace. The excitment was gone, the whoooo-hooo was gone, but there was great peace.

The singing stopped. Everyone took their seats. I got up and wiped my face as inconspicuously as I could. I just sat there. The kids were whispering their kid stuff but I just sat there. Like a stone. But I was at peace. The shame was gone. One of the leaders on stage began to pray. Suddenly, the girl I had judged most harshly, the one that looked like a young Christie Brinkley, bent over from the waist down and just started to cry. Loud. All the counselors had been given the go ahead to minister to any child during the service. I had never been involved in any kind of altar ministry and never really intended to. Hey, I didn't even want to be here two days ago. But as this girl just wept, loudly, and the rest of the room prayed quietly, I felt the Lord nudging me to go up to her. "Noooooo, not me, Lord."
"Yessssss, you". Reluctantly I made my way out of my seat and went up and stood in front of her.

"Wow, this is hard, Lord. I don't even know what to say or do."

"Pray"

Having no idea who she was or what she needed I just put my hand up near her head, just barely touching her bangs, and started praying in tongues. Very softly. Barely discernable to the ears around us. The music was playing quietly and everyone was either just sitting there or praying. As I prayed, the girl began to cry louder. Oh no. All of a sudden she fell down. She was out under the power of the Holy Spirit.

Well, this is different! I just stood there stunned. The whole line of girls, unbeknownst to me, had stood while I was praying for her and were crying. There were other pockets of crying in the back. I made my way down the line, each one reacting similarly.

All of a sudden I felt this huge, uncontrollable urge to prophesy. My biggest fear. I had been hearing from the Lord more regularly in the past year, and had even had a corporate word, albiet short, during a chapel time. It scared me so much that I fought it off whenever I felt it later. I had seen people get the hand on the shoulder and I had a paralyzing fear of that. The humiliation of that.

I opened my mouth and it just came out. It was loud, powerful, like a stream of words straight from heaven. There was no doubt in my mind and spirit that it was God's word for that moment. For those people. I was shaking.

The altar suddenly flooded with crying teens. I kept speaking. As long as I spoke kids kept pressing forward. Praying, singing, looking for prayer, whatever. Then it happened. My eyes were closed and I felt the hand on my shoulder. I choked and the words stopped. The leader told me that "she knew that I was speaking from the Lord but that it was interfering with the ministry time". THAT IS A DIRECT QUOTE! The word from the Lord was interfering with the ministry time!
I stood and went back to my seat. I hung my head. All I could think of was my humiliation. It didn't occur to me that she had just shut down the Spirit. Within minutes the service was over. Completely over. Kids just started leaving, going back to their cabins, gabbing and talking as usual. The leader came up to me and said, "Well! I didn't mean for you to stop praying for people! I just thought your prophesying was done!" So much for what she thought.

That shut me down prophetically for a long time. God was still working in me, but I never spoke out publicly after that for a long time.

The Lord spoke to me later and told me that I had had a choice when the time came to repent. He said that if I had chosen not to repent that when I saw that girl crying the way she was, I would have reacted like, "Yeah, she's just fakin' it". Since I had repented He had given me my mother heart back, and all I could think of was, " My poor baby!"

The rest of the week went well. In spite of my embarrassment I slept well that night and woke refreshed. At the end of the week the youth pastor came to me and said he was pleasantly surprized to see what a good time I had had. "Yeah", I said, "If you ever need help again sometime, you can call". "I'll let you know", he replied.

The next day was okay. The kids started coming in by the busload. There were a couple buses from our church. We're a big one and only having two buses means we still didn't get the whole youth group. There were buses from other churches around the state. The camp was on a lake but you had to walk down this stony, kinda steep in places road so I didn't visit it very often even though I love water.

I had been assigned to one of the few cabins. I liked that alot. "Boy's Town" was on the other side of the camp and they slept in tents. The girls mostly slept in what was called "The Dorm". That's where I fell off the bunkbed. It WAS just like a dorm too, and it smacked too much of boarding school for me, not camp. Lot's of girls liked it though because they had bathrooms down the hall and didn't have to go outside to get to them. Junior camp girls had cabins. There were too many senior camp girls to fit in the dorm so two brand new (!) cabins were used for them. I got one. I LOVED it. The privacy, just being alone with MY girls, etc. It was the most similar to my previous camp experience that it gave me a sense of comfort.

The girls started trickling in. I was given a 12-13 yr. old group, the youngest in the Senior division. The youth pastor did that because he knew I was skittish about the whole thing anyway and wanted me to have some easier girls. Thirteen year old girls are usually the WORST for their parents, but are generally pretty obedient for others. Only one girl out of the seven I had was from my church. I recognized her because her father was a professor at the college, they had been missionaries in Africa for a few years, and my older daughter was friends with her older sister. When I saw her name on my roster I was happy about that because I assumed that she would be this really sweet, really easy going girl, like her older sister. Wrong.

As the other girls, who ranged from bubbly, talkative, popular types to very soft spoken, nervous, this is the farthest I've ever been away from home types, began unpacking, making their beds, getting to know me and the others, this girl from my church pops her head in the door. She has been to this camp before and she RULES, or at least thinks she does. She takes one look at me, thinks she knows me just because she's seen me around town and the church, throws her baseball cap on her bed in a huff, and says, "I hope this ain't gonna be no GIRLY cabin!"

Okay, number one, her grammer was never that bad again, so I figured out that she was just going for effect. And number two, she must not know me very well. While I'm not exactly jockish, I'm not that girly either. I've slowed down a little bit since then, just a little, but in my early forties I was still moving around pretty 'good' if I do say so myself.

Well, I ignored the comment and said "Hi, Susie, and how are you today?" Oooops, that was my first mistake. Susie was her sister, the one I knew, she was Sandy. She glared at me, told me that she did NOT like being called by her sisters name. I struggled with that all week. She glared at me all week.

The week actually got better and better as it went on. Especially when I figured out that the only 'housework' I had to do was make my bed and pick up my own stuff! It was like this big revelation to me. The girls were responsible for themselves and I DIDN'T HAVE TO COOK FOR ANYONE! YAY! No dishes, no laundry......hey, can I get this gig for the whole summer? Kids are the easy part for me. I like hangin' with 'em, doing stuff, and end up picking up some of their jargon, even if I don't intend to, I don't stoop to their level of ignorance or immaturity but I enjoy their energy, funnyness and inquisitive spirits. Sometimes adults think they know everything. Kids might ACT like they do, but ACT is the operative word there. It's easy to get past an act. It's not easy to get past pride. I figured that out a long time ago.

The girls in my cabin quickly became MY girls. I really liked them and they liked me, well, except for Miss 'I don't want no girly cabin' girl. I don't think I ever got on her good side. To bad she came from my church. She either ignored me or glared at me after we got back home too. Oh well, can't please 'em all. Just wish it didn't have to be up in my face.

The first night of camp, Sunday night, I realized how different this camp was from the YWCA camp I went to as a kid. CHAPEL TIME. Two a day! One in the morning, which was more of a teaching time with just a little bit of worship to warm it up. The nighttime one was almost ALL worship with just a little bit of teaching thrown in. It started at 8 pm, after all the mandatory camp style games, which I mostly endured. It ended at midnight or a little after. No one ever wanted to leave. God was moving, man! There were testimonies, prayer time, WOOOORRSSSSHIIIIIIIPPPPP! I had never been to a camp like THIS! Okay, I was wrong, God, I repent, God, You are right, Father, You are ALWAYS right, Lord, I love You, God, I will serve You, Jesus, please forgive me, God. This is a B-L-A-S-T!!! I DON'T WANT TO GO HOOOOOOOOME!

I'm a pretty forgiving person. Really, I am. Even if I wasn't, I wouldn't have held it against the mom for something her kid did. I'm a mom, and I wouldn't want to be blamed for everything MY kids have done, for sure!

I still loved my friend, well, I still do, even today, but things haven't really been the same since then. It wasn't just the rejection of her son. It was her work, my work, her problems, my changes.

God was doing something in me. It was the early to mid ninties and God was awakening something so deep in me that even I didn't understand it for a long time. I remember telling God one day that I loved Him. Then I realized it just sounded like words. Like not the real feeling, just words. I started to cry and told God that I wanted to love Him like He deserved to be loved. And I wanted to FEEL His love, notknow the love because the Bible tells me so, but the I can really feel your love, deep in my spirit, kind of love.

Well, that was all it took. It was like He was waiting ALL these years for me to ask Him that. Immediately I began a process of falling in love with Him. The Bible didn't seem so hard to get anymore. I always loved the Word. Always. But sometimes it was just too hard, too harsh, God was too difficult, too demanding and too distant. The verses that talked about how we are the saints? I don't think that's me! I'm righteous? Well, in THEORY maybe. I was still the good girl, the faithful wife and mother, the non drinking, non smoking good girl. But then again, I was all those things BEFORE Christ came into my life. I wasn't really backslidden, at least most people wouldn't have thought so. I mean, I was going to church every Sunday, wasn't I? And I really LIKED going to church every Sunday! I didn't exactly feel free to express myself in worship, but then no one really did anyway. I fit in. I was quiet, repectful, very upstanding, donchaknow. I FIT IN! I wasn't necessarily trying to fit in, but I did. And that was good, right?

Not suddenly, but pretty quickly, things started to change. My oldest daughter was in college. Doing things she was definitely NOT raised to do. That, that alone, was doing me in. It's the only time in my life that I have ever suffered from insomnia. Anxiety flowed through my veins like blood. I knew I was called to children, other peoples children, but how could I care about someone elses childs salvation
more than my own? I knew God wanted something from me, I wasn't quite sure what that was, but I could feel it. I just couldn't justify committing myself to that though unless I had something to hold on to about MY daughter, my OWN baby, not someone elses.

I got on my knees, I didn't do that very often, I still don't do that very often, I'm not very religious that way, and I started crying to God. I said something to the effect of:

"Okay, God I failed. I admit it right now, I failed. I did the best I could but it wasn't enough. It just wasn't enough. Maybe it is my fault or maybe it's not. Maybe it's not my fault because I didn't grow up with Christian parents, not REAL ones anyway. Maybe it isn't my fault because I never had anyone to really mentor me, I mean, really take me under their wing and show me the way. Maybe it isn't my fault because even my husband, the love of my life from my youth, never took the spiritual headship that he should have taken. Or maybe it is just ALL of my fault and I am sorry. I am soooo sorry. I wanted to be perfect, just as You are perfect, but I missed the mark. I hate myself for that. I will always love You, God, and I will always believe in You, and I will do what You have already given me to do....but no more. I am going to finish up with what You've given me to do but I'm not going to do anymore. Not until MY baby, MINE, not all these other kids that come over, but MINE, Lord, totally commits her life to you. If she does that, then I will do anything, ANYTHING, You tell me to do."

I don't remember if it was a few weeks or a few months. All of a sudden I got this phone call,

"Moooooooom"

"What, dear?" I thought she had had an accident. She was crying.

"Gooooood, iiiiiss speeeeeekiing to meeee"

This was my played a whole season of basketball on a stress fracture and never cried daughter, played gym with the boys because the girls said she was too rough daughter, loved sliding into home base and getting all muddy daughter, leg all bruised up from a season of playing front line soccor daughter. This was my "I can't wait to get away from this town, this church, this house" daughter when she left for college. This was my "I don't know what course of study I want to take at college, I just know I want to make money, lot's of it." daughter. This is the daughter everyone, even her father, even the pastor of the church, even EVERYBODY, told me was SO awesome because she was so pretty, so athletic, so smart in school, the 'golden girl'. I was the ONLY one who saw past all that and said, if only to myself, "yeah, but what about God? What about her walking with the Lord?"

"What is He speaking to you, honey?" She never talked like that, that 'speaking to me' stuff. I barely even talked like that back then.

"He's speaking to me from Romans 7. I do what I know not to do and I don't do what I know to do. I dooooon't know what to dooooo! Mommm!"

Romans 7. The exact passage God used to bring me to my senses when I was 22 years old. She was 22 years old.

"You gotta praaaay for me Mommm!"

I had already rolled off the couch and was leaning over it with the phone in my hand. I think I forgot for a moment that she was even there. "You are a faithful GOD! You are a FAITHFUL God. YOU ARE A FAITHFUL GOD!"

I went to bed that night fearing the same thing my mother hoped when I accepted Christ when I was 22. I feared that this was just a dream and that it would go away. My mother hoped that this was a dream and it would go away. I had a drivers license at that point but had never driven farther than the thirty minutes it took to drive to the city. Now I told my husband that I needed to visit her at her college 2 1/2 hours away. By myself. I had to see this, in person, for myself. He let me go. The minute I walked into her apartment I knew something was different. She was different. I heard the worship music before I even knocked on the door. The place was clean, the air was sweet, the presence of the Holy Spirit was there. He was palpable.

I didn't remember so much about the last part of my prayer right away. The "I'll do anything for you, Lord" part. But my heart was full and open.

A week later, ONE WEEK later, I got a call from the Youth Pastor. He called me Mrs. *****. That was probably the last time anyone ever called me Mrs.***** again. He asked if I would be a counselor at youth camp in a few weeks. I had just lost my three foster babies. I have them back now and they are adopted, but I had just lost them. It was July of 1995. I was in pain. I didn't like teenagers very much anyway. I had already raised three and it didn't appear I did too awfully well at it. Well, yeah, my rebellious daughter had just made a spectacular return to the Lord but that was His doing, amen? I was a complete failure, remember, Lord?

"No. I don't think so".

A week later I got another call.

"Please, we need more counselors".

Don't you people know that I just lost my three babies and I am in some severe emotional trauma right now! I didn't say that but I felt like it. Besides, my basketball playing daughter was having knee surgery that EXACT week. I mean, c'mon, I really can't stand the idea of a week of spoiled teenagers, but I'm not going to tell you THAT. I'll just use the best, most truthful excuse in the world.

One last call was made. "If you don't help us we aren't going to have enough women counselors and we will have to turn some girls away".

My husband, the one who didn't even like it when I went out to a Tupperware party, told me to go. "Go ahead, honey, it will make you feel better. You might have fun". Grrrrr.

He needed counselors. Girls wouldn't be able to come. Well, rats, if you put it THAT way. Arrrrrgh. Gotta give the guy props for persistance.

I went. He got a two for one deal. My second daughter, the curly redhaired one went with me. She was a junior camp counselor and I was in senior camp. I couldn't decide which was better. Junior campers were sweeter, but there was more babysitting. Senior campers were more independent but I had a reeeeaaal baaaad feeling about this!

I took the top bunk that first night, the night before all the campers get there. I always take the top bunk. I love the top bunk. I didn't even need a ladder to get up there and I was 42 years old. I couldn't sleep that night. What a pain. What am I DOING here? I liked camp so-so when I was a kid, but I'm middleaged now and I hate this. I fell into a fitful sleep. So fitful that I rolled over and fell on the floor. All the way from the top bunk! THUUUUUUD!. OWWWWWWWWWEEEEEEE! My daughter wakes up and asks if I'm alright. Yes, I'm alright! I hate this! I hate this bed, I hate this room, I hate this camp! I wanna go home!

Looking back, can anyone say, "You are such a baaaaabeeeee!"

Sleep was eluding me but tomorrow was fast on it's way.

My friend and I weren't two sides of a coin, different yet compatable. That would be me and the husband. God works it like that I think with spouses. She was so much LIKE me that we were more like two peas in a pod. Where did she come from? How had I missed her? Where had she been for the eight long years I had lived in this dinky town? She was here. Just not wherever I was, I guess.

It was 1982. The decade of blurriness for me. I do not remember too many specific things about the eighties.

I graduated from HS in '71, got married in '72, had kids in '74, '76, '78. There were demarcation points.

Then it just becomes a blur of diapers, nighttime stories, babysitting other peoples kids for extra money, and dishes, dishes, more dishes. Would I ever get caught up?

I made a decision early on that I would not be the perfectionist housekeeper. I adopted my mother-in-laws attitude (the woman with eight kids, the last being born at, ooops, 46), that housework would always be there and that kids wouldn't. I still had that other side though and once in a while, when the WHOLE house was in chaos and I couldn't walk into even ONE picked up room, I could feel myself tense up.

In the eighties there are no definitive dates. I remember ballgames. Lot's of ballgames. All kinds of ballgames. Inside, outside, on lawn chairs, on bleachers. Our two oldest are girls but that did not stop my husband from signing them up for the local girls softball league. Daughter no. 1 turned out to be a gifted athlete. Sort of like my swimming and tennis abilities meshed with his basketball, baseball, running and ice hockey abilities and created this wonderwoman, of sorts. It didn't show up until about fourth grade after she had been playing softball for a couple of years. She was SO good, hitting them out of the park, and she was wearing Don Mattingly's number on her shirt (23 for those of you who didn't follow the Yankees back then!). She said she wanted to be the first woman to play for the Yankees. While we knew that was a little bit of a stretch (just a little!) I did start calling her Donna Mattingly. We always encouraged her and came to her games. The other kids played sports too, but even the boy, who was athletic too was never the standout that she was.

In high school she was voted Most Athletic Girl in her class and was All-County in the three sports she played, basketball, softball and soccor. The volleyball coach and the cross country coach both pleaded with her to play their sport because she was such a good all around athlete, but soccor won out over cross-country, and basketball, the sport she went on to play in the NCAA, won out over volleyball.

Those are some of my memories of the eighties. But I also remember my friend. Sometimes in the forefront, more commonly in the back, but always in my life, always there. Neither of us had a lot of money but we found things to do with each other, pretty much always involving our kids. She got us memberships to the local JCC (Jewish Community Center) swimming pools over in the next town. We took our kids every day in the summer. She was artsy and I appreciated that about her. Kinda like my first best friend who went on to art school. She was always painting something, drawing something, rearranging her house, etc.

Money was a particular issue for them. There was never enough. They weren't poor. Just poor handlers of what they had. After they bought their first house, around the mid eighties, they could barely make the mortgage payments. She still wanted to take the kids to Mickey D's and felt that she 'deserved' a new dress once a month. I stayed out of it. We ate at home and I bought a new dress on an as needed basis.

She couldn't seem to understand how we 'did so well' on such a small income since her husband was in construction and when he was working made at least twice or more than we did. I told her that my husband and I have an agreement. I'm frugal and he pays the bill at the end of every month. She would sniff that she couldn't live like that. Alrighty then. There was a point, around the early ninties when I realized why they were having such a hard time making the mortgage payments. They had taken a mortgage at the bank in the mid eighties during a time when the interest rates had skyrocketed. They were STILL paying 13% interest! I almost choked when I heard that! I don't know much about financial stuff but I knew enough to know that they were getting LEGALLY ROBBED! I went home and told my husband.

The next time we saw them, of course, like always, the subject of money comes up. Husband, who knew about the situation through me but hadn't talked to them directly about it until now, said in his quiet, non-intrusive way, "You guys, if I were you, I wouldn't walk to the bank, I would RUN to the bank, and get that interest rate changed. Not only will your monthly payment go down but they will probably PAY you BACK about $30,000."

You could have heard a pin drop.

The subject was changed and nothing more was said about money that night. When I talked to her a couple of days later I asked if her husband was going to do anything about the mortgage. She got very quiet and said, "No." "Why?", I asked. I was flabbergasted. She knew her husband was being stubborn and said that he didn't think my husband was " smart enough to counsel him about finances because he had only gone to a year of community college, while her husband had a four year degree in civil engineering". My husband couldn't possibly know as much about this as they did.

Oh, the pride. I won't start quoting scripture but doesn't it go before a fall? My husbands father was a lawyer. Mostly dealing in real estate law, taxes and a few other things. So, my husband, college or no college knows ALOT. Since it has never been my style to communicate with someone after they call me (or my husband for that matter), stupid, I just dropped the subject. I knew that she was in a bind. She knew my husband was right and that her's was being a prideful jerk, but whattaya gonna do? I don't think he ever did go to the bank. Ever.

A couple of years later a situation arose where their oldest child, a son, was not going to be allowed to walk down the aisle for his graduation from the local Bible college. They were behind on the payments, almost a year behind, and the college, while letting the boy get his diploma, had a rule that if you weren't paid up you couldn't walk the aisle. I realize why the school has that rule. Kids come, they get the diploma, they leave, owing thousands of dollars, and never, yes I said, NEVER, pay it back. These are CHRISTIAN kids from Christian families. Don't even GET me going on intergrity issues in the Body of Christ! Yet, I still felt horrible for this boy. All those years of work, not to walk the aisle at graduation time. I actually did something I am not known for doing. I stepped into someone else's business, even without their knowledge. Oooo, this was waaaaay out of my comfort zone!

I went to the President of the Bible College. He didn't know me very well, but he knew my late father-in-law. Papa had done all the legal work for the Bible College pro bono for twenty years between the mid fifties and mid seventies. He knew my last name and knew I was of that family. I called and made an appointment. He saw me almost immediately without knowing why I was coming. I told him the situation, and about the 13% interest rate. When he heard the number I saw his face contort. He knew these people. The husband had been a student at this college twenty five years before. He considered them friends of his, albiet it much younger. He already knew of the husbands lengendary stubbornness. He left me with, "I'm sorry, I don't know what I can do, they have more problems than just paying off this school loan". I said that I knew he was right, shook his hand and thanked him for taking the time with me, and I left. I never heard from him again on this issue, and I never heard whether the bill got paid or not. I did hear, however, that the son walked the aisle. I know the family was financially strapped at that time so I am fairly certain the bill still wasn't paid before graduation. I think the President had grace on them and even though no one has ever said so, I think I had something to do with that.

It was the early ninties, and I was losing touch with my buddy. Our family was firmly entrenched in foster care and all that that entails and she was looking for work to help pay the bills. She started taking classes to be a dental hygenist. We only talked once a week but every time we did it was like nothing had transpired in between. We were still best friends and there for each other as much as we could be. I had other sorta friends and so did she but when we were on the phone, or together, we were still two peas in a pod. Have you ever been in the same room with two hyperactive, overtalkative, crazy- funny women? It's either very funny, or not pretty, whatever your perspective is. We loved it.

The kids were growing up, growing apart. Our youngest, both boys, were great buddies for many years. Her son went to the local Christian school and mine to public school. My son was having a terrible social time in school, getting picked on for some reason we never fully understood. It wasn't like one or two kids picked on him. He became known as the kid that has no friends. When a new kid would come to the school he would start to make friends with them, and then they would hear that he was the kid that had no friends and they would drop him too. It was ludicrous. Why was this happening? My son was athletic, normal smart, and VERY cute. Blonde hair that gently curled if it got long, and turned platinum in the sun. If he had lived in California he would have been the surfer dude. Okay, he was somewhat shy like Dad and had my ADHD, but what kid doesn't have something?

One summer our son found out that his buddy was coming to public school in the fall. He was going into seventh grade. Yay! There would be a friend at school! He was ecstatic and I was too. I made time for him to go over there more and for the friend to come to our house. They spent time riding bikes all over town, fishing in the pond, and playing video games on rainy days. This year was going to be grrrrreaaaat!

On the first day of school, about thirty minutes after the bus dropped the kids off, my friend calls me. "Your son", she says, "I feel so bad! He's having such a hard time at school! My son told me how bad it is for him there, how he has NO friends, and how everyone is so mean to him".

Wow, thanks. That's JUST what I needed to hear on the FIRST day of a new school year! She pleaded with me to get him out of the school, send him somewhere else. I tried, though it was hard to interrupt when she goes on a bender, to tell her that I had already tried to do that. Husband didn't want to pay for the VERY expensive local Christian school (it's one of the more expensive in the state, let alone the country). She berated me, telling me we should take out loans if we had to, to get him out of there. By the time she was done, and we hung up, I was crying. I was already aware of what his school life was like but I had already BEGGED, almost getting down on my knees, husband to either let him go to Christian School or let me homeschool him. It was like banging my head on a brick wall. I didn't need my best friend, my bud, making me feel worse about it.

Well, my son, who thought he finally had someone to eat lunch with since third grade, was good to go. I never mentioned the phone call to him or to my husband. I just hoped everything would work out with this boy who had been his friend since they were four. The next day after school my son walks in the kitchen looking like he was going to cry. "What baby?" His friend REFUSED to sit with him at lunch, instead sitting with some other kids leaving my son to sit alone. His best friend. Since they were four.

A few weeks later, son was running down the hallway and this "friend", was sitting on the floor in the hallway with three other guys. Just as my son runs by, his former friend sticks his foot out and TRIPS him, sending books and paper's flying everywhere and throwing him down on the floor. One might expect that from a class bully, or a life long enemy. But from your BEST FRIEND? Wasn't it enough that he had rejected him? Did he have to humiliate him too?

I never mentioned that incident to my friend. She was the classic mom who would defend her "little precious" at all cost. I knew it wouldn't do any good to bring it up. I just let it go. I have seen this boy since then. He is happily married and has a child now. I am very kind to him when I see him, but there is always a little pinch in my heart. I don't think he even knows I know about that. People talk about forgiving and forgetting. Isn't forgiving enough? How does one forget? Do mothers EVER forget?

That was the beginning of the end though with my friend. We were still busy. We still talked and stayed in touch.

There is more to come on that but let me leave you with this about my son:

The summer before that September my husband was replacing the roof on our house. While he was up there a young boy came walking by. The young boy, a known troublemaker in our area, started asking my husband what he was doing. He asked my husband what his name was. Husband told him. Since son is a junior, the boy said, "I know a kid with that name at school!" My husband told the boy that the kid with the same name was his son. The boy asked if he could come in. "Okay", said husband. They come walking in the house and all I could think of, as I was being introduced, is that this was the kid I had heard so much about. I was understandably nervous. He was nice looking, clean, a little taller than most of the kids but VERY buff, due to the steriods he took for asthma.

I made lunch, husband went back on the roof, and this kid stayed......for the whole rest of the day. He came back the next day, and the next day, and the next day. He became friends with our son, giving me mixed feelings. It was SO GOOD to see junior having fun with someone, but with THIS kid? Yeeeesh. This relationship grew over the summer. The summer JUST BEFORE the big rejection. It was August something and the boys were sitting around talking about the start of school. I put my arm around my son's new buddy and said, "Buddy (bet you wouldn't believe me if I told you that was his REAL name!), you know how junior gets picked on in school? Would you be his friend in school? Just so he has a friend to eat lunch with?"

"Sure, Mrs. C! Yeah, he's my BUD!" I really liked this kid, and by then I knew that even though he was living with his real mom and stepdad that he had been in foster care earlier in his life. Yep, that's me, the foster mom! He found his next foster mom, me. Eventually he came to call me Mom.

The second day of school some kid who had his locker two doors down from my son started harrassing him. Junior didn't say anything, as usual. Buddy comes out of nowhere, grabs the kid from behind in a headlock with his muscly arm and whispers in his ear, "You mess with him, you messin' with me!" Okay, Buddy, Okay!

While Junior never became exactly popular after that he never got picked on to quite the same degree again. He had a friend. A friend with a rep, as they used to say. When Buddy moved out of his house at eighteen years old, I cried. I wrote him a card and told him I would miss him and to stay in touch. I told him he was an answer to prayer for my son. He called me later and told me that Junior, our family, me, had been an answer to prayer for him. Rain falls on the just and the unjust, but God is always good. No one will ever change my mind about that!